Star Trek Beyond

I watched Star Trek Beyond this weekend, as I said I would, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. After the sour taste of Into Darkness, Beyond was wonderfully Star Trek. The story wasn’t based off of an older film or television episode, but it still felt like Trek. Simon Pegg, the writer/Scotty, grew up with and loves Star Trek, which really came across in the script. The cast remains perfect, and there is a heartfelt tribute to both the original cast and to Leonard Nimoy.

                As many of you know, this year marks Star Trek’s 50^th anniversary, and many fans were holding onto hope that Paramount would release something worthy of this milestone, and I’d like to think that they did. Certainly it was a better celebration of the franchise than Skyfall was for Bond. The plot took many typical action movie routes, but it also harkened back to the roots of Star Trek with the discussion of morals and grey areas, and science. Best of all, the feeling of hope that the television series were known to impart was back in full swing. I left the theatre happy and hopeful, which is something that hadn’t happened in a long time. Don’t get me wrong, I usually leave the theatre happy and content, but the feeling of hope isn’t something one usually leaves a theatre with, and it certainly wasn’t something I left Into Darkness feeling.

                There was a great moment right at the start of the third act that could’ve just been a typical action movie moment, but the script from Pegg and Doug Jung elevated it by the simple inclusion of science in the dialogue. The humour and heart that was the soul of Star Trek came back in full swing for this film. The banter between Kirk, Spock, and McCoy felt plucked from The Original Series, and it was flawless. Every insult that McCoy threw Spock’s way came from a place of deep respect, and the viewer could pick up on that. From the way Kirk interacted with all of his crew, you could see the trust he has in them. And the easter eggs. Oh my goodness, the easter eggs. From references to the MACO and Xindi wars to the cast of TOS, the easter eggs were plentiful and amazing. If I have one gripe with the script, it’s an extremely nerdy one. At one point Scotty mentions that the crashed ship they find, the USS Franklin, was the first warp 4 capable ship, unfortunately, according to its registry number (and the fact its captain fought against the Xindi before becoming a captain) it was built after the Enterprise NX-01, which was the first warp 5 capable ship. Casual viewers won’t pick this up, but it did take me out of the movie for a moment, especially since the new Trek films have mentioned the NX-01 before.

                Nerdy griping aside, the film had a beautiful tribute to Leonard Nimoy’s passing woven into the story. Early in the film, Spock finds out about the passing of Ambassador Spock, and decides that he is going to leave Starfleet and go to New Vulcan to finish Ambassador Spock’s work. He believes that this is what the Ambassador would want. But at the end of the film he is given a package that contains several items from Ambassador Spock. Included in these items is a photograph of the original cast taken during the filming of their last movie together. This is the part where my eyes started welling up. The credits say that the film is in memory of Leonard, and following that was the simple message: “For Anton.” That’s where I actually cried a little. The Star Trek family lost two members in its fiftieth year, and instead of cashing in on that, Star Trek Beyond pays them a beautiful tribute that was full of hope for humanity. This message of hope is something that our real world, with its daily terror attacks and mass shootings, sorely needs. 

Straight up? This is all about DC

                What a week.

                I mean, what a week. Parts of it seemed to stretch out for forever, ever since Wednesday I had thought it was Friday, but Monday feels like it was only yesterday. On top of that, I lived out my childhood (and, let’s be honest, my adult) fantasy of catching a Pokémon in the real world. It’s been a weird week.

                Let’s talk about something I don’t often bring up on these posts: the DC Extended Universe. I enjoyed Man of Steel, to the point where I have watched it by choice several times. I was excited for Batman v Superman, and, even after the extremely disappointing trailers, I still saw it opening weekend. I badly wanted to like it, honest. I loved Gal Gadot’s Wonder Woman, I honestly think Ben Affleck is one of the best actors to ever don the Batcowl. It’s just the movie itself. The scenes with Wonder Woman were amazing, but she’s barely in it. Affleck smirking and pretending to be drunk as Bruce Wayne was probably the funniest part of the movie. And Superman was…there? Honestly, after the humanity that was portrayed in Man of Steel, Henry Cavill feels underutilized. And there was the odd choice of making Lex Luthor a less deranged Joker, instead of a brilliant and corrupt inventor. He was basically a crazier Zuckerberg who talked about urine. Even with all my disappointment, the film looked beautiful, the fight scenes were well done, and I will watch Gal Gadot’s scenes again and again.

                I still have hope for the DCEU, though! Mainly brought on by my hopes for both Suicide Squad and the Wonder Woman solo film. The trailers for Suicide Squad are colourful and over the top, the casting choices seem on point, and I’m honestly excited for Leto’s take on the Joker. As for the WW solo film? She was the best part of BvS, the film takes place in World War 2, Chris Pine, and it has a female director! Plus the latest poster for it looks extremely badass.

                Now let’s flip to the smaller screen, and what’s affectionately known as the Arrowverse. The Arrowverse comprises of Arrow, The Flash, Legends of Tomorrow, Supergirl, and Constantine. All the shows DC currently has airing, and if any of you mention Gotham, I don’t care. These shows have a dedicated fanbase, and many were surprised to learn that the actors on the shows would not be playing their respective characters in the film universe. As of right now, DC has two live action Flashes, two Supermans, and two Suicide Squads. There is an interesting theory that has come out of this! The Flash has crossed over into other versions of Earth, and many believe that the film universe is actually just one of the darker universes (because of all that killing), and that DC’s endgame is a “Crisis on Infinite Earths” type movie, where the film heroes and TV heroes will cross over into an epically confusing and convoluted mess that will put the final nail into the DCEU.

                But seriously, the shows on the CW are amazing. Even with people’s gripes about Arrow’s storytelling the past couple years, the shows are all still solid and enjoyable, and aren’t super dark in the lighting department. Does Ben Affleck eat up that much of the budget or something? Get some lights on your sets DC. I know those costumes have colour somewhere!   

A clearer understanding

                I suppose this blog is getting a little confusing with the constant switching between short stories and more essay like pieces, isn’t it? Maybe I should put a little warning in the titles? Or you could all just suck it up and deal with it. I kinda like that option, ngl.

                As I detailed, in a slightly fictionalized way, the lack of creativity and imagination in my writing was wearing me down. I was becoming more and more jaded with things, and, as I said, I was no longer seeing the beauty in the world. There were no more vibrant colours to excite my eyes, instead everything was dull and grey and pointless. Ever since I started making myself write more short fictions, I have been feeling more alive, and more engaged.

                For people who don’t write, this can be hard to understand, but writing isn’t just a way to make a living, or a way of life: it is life. Writing gives us (writers) meaning, it gives us reasons to wake up in the morning. Writing makes us feel good, and it helps us to feel better. You’ll hear a lot of writers talk about stress from writing, and while true, we also alleviate that stress by writing more! Sometimes, to deal with the stress from writing, all it takes is to write something else.

                That was my problem. My writing was stressing me out, but I wasn’t changing gears. I just kept grinding away, getting more and more worn out, until I got to the point where writing had become a chore and not something I enjoyed. The feeling of loss I felt at that revelation is nigh indescribable. One of the things I loved most in the world had suddenly become something that I did not want to do. So it became this exercise that I forced myself to do, day in day out, all the while growing more and more disillusioned with the whole system, and with myself.

                I was watching the world burn down in front of my eyes, and instead of getting water I stepped into the flames, thinking that I would be able to make a difference that way. As we all know, stepping into a flame only gets you burnt. I planted my flag in this war and thought I could win by fighting and not by guiding. Surely those masses would see the error of their ways through my glorious and inspiring words!

                What a fool I was.

                Instead of uniting people, all I did was give them another target. Soon people I was once respected and admired, wrongly, had me in their sights. The insults and slurs started pouring in, the threats of violence and the threats of death hidden in between.

                And all the more tired and disillusioned I became.

                My words became bitter and infused with a forced false sense of hope. My words became cutting, and, in becoming cutting, lost their edge. I lost my true focus and tried to write what I thought people wanted me to write, instead of writing what I needed to write.

                But what did I need to write?

                I needed to write my truth. I needed to create stories and parables that led people, and guided them to final goals. I needed to write things that didn’t just bash people over the head with truth, but showed the truth.

                This is not to say that the blunt posts are not relevant or important, they are! I only mean that I needed to expand back into what I used to write. Stories and tales were my home. Weaving threads together to create a tapestry that inspires is my greatest gift.

And I had abandoned it.

It took nearly destroying myself and my creativity to pick it back up.

Now that I have, I will fight to not let it go again. 

Family don't end with blood, boy

                Family is a common theme in many narratives. It’s something that is easy to do and always evokes some sort of reaction from the audience. But what exactly is family? Does family only count those of blood relation, or does it extend passed that? The answer to that isn’t exactly clear, and if you look at pop culture the answer seems mixed. Personally, I believe that family, your real family, are the people you choose.

                In Supernatural, the importance of family is put front and centre in the very first episode (a whole 240 episodes ago) when Dean reunites with his brother Sam to go find their missing father, all the while hunting the demon that killed their mother. Family is kind of a big deal in Supernatural. But as the seasons progress, so does the idea of family. While at the beginning family literally meant blood relations, it soon came to include Bobby (who became a surrogate father to the boys), Ellen (a surrogate mother), Jo, Charlie, Cas (an angel), Kevin (a prophet), Chuck (a writer, and (SPOILER) God), and even Crowley (a demon). The following is one of the most quoted exchanges on the show:

Dean: This isn't your fight.

Bobby: The hell it isn't! Family don't end with blood, boy.

The fandom has taken this and turned it into a way of life. The official name for the fandom is the Supernatural family.

                Bobby’s quote resonated with a lot of people, including myself. Biologically speaking, my family is fairly small, and we’re pretty spread out. Never mind that half of the family doesn’t speak to each other. I always wanted a big family, I wanted to know that there were a ton of people out there who loved me and cared for me, so I made my own. Because family doesn’t end in blood, family is everyone that cares about you.

                A favourite saying of people who think family is blood relations is the old adage: “Blood is thicker than water!” And while that statement has merits, it has been having a rough history as of late. A Rabbi has come forward and said that the original phrase was closer to: “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the waters of the womb.” It’s a statement I personally agree with, however when one does a rudimentary search of the phrase, there is no source of the statement before this Rabbi. Maybe that was the original, maybe this Rabbi has a sense of humour, it’s hard to say and harder to prove. This whole paragraph is basically pointless other than to answer the question of why I didn’t use this quote pre-emptively.

                How I Met Your Mother really took the idea of choosing your family and ran with it. None of the main characters are related by blood, but they were one of the closest families in television history. You knew that they loved each other unconditionally. You knew that they would always have each other’s backs, even when they were fighting. This idea that your friend group could become your family has been instrumental in my own understanding of the concept.

                Family is important. Outside of nourishment and shelter, it’s arguably the most important aspect of a person’s life. The idea that our family is a group of people forced on us by simple genetics is ridiculous. Family is not a title that is given out by right of birth, family is a title that is earned and fought for. A friend—family member!—and I were talking about this the other day, and summed up my beliefs thusly: “Way I see it, you got blood relations, and you got family. Sometimes the blood relations don’t get to be family.”

                When I think of my own family, there are very few blood relations that I would consider to be part of my real family, and I’m not meaning any disrespect towards them, they just aren’t an influential part of my day-to-day existence.  I still consider them family, just not family. Obviously, my parents are part of those I consider to be my true family, and the rest of you know who you are (hopefully).

                Literally a quarter of this was just me talking about Supernatural, and honestly I had to rein myself in. Other pop culture I was going to touch on: Harry Potter, Arrow, Doctor Who and Torchwood, Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica (2004), Frodo and Sam (Lord of the Rings for you heathens), Guardians of the Galaxy (Peter Quill and literally everyone), Orphan Black, KillJoys, Dark Matter, Chuck, Stargate SG-1 and Atlantis, and The Expanse. Know what I wasn’t going to talk about? Friends. Those people were not a family (other than Joey and Chandler). 

Danny and Steve

                As this is a blog that I post online and share through social media, I’m sure there is a high expectation that I talk about Pokémon Go. I’ll just say this on the matter: it’s fun and it gets you out exercising without you really noticing. If you want more of my thoughts on the matter, just check my twitter. On with the blog!

                Everything is in a state of perpetual flux. Just as things are going smoothly, something will happen that shakes things up. That jars reality. Things will stay rocky for a while, but eventually it will smooth out again.

                That’s how life works. It’s how we expect things to go. What we don’t expect is the involvement of an especially sheltered angel who “just wants to help”.

                I had just found out I was behind on literally all of my bills due to some clerical error, my girlfriend had decided to leave, and the servers were down on my favourite game. I couldn’t see how things could get worse.

                Then a bright light and a screeching sound shattered three of my windows and cracked my tv.

                Plus the sound really hurt my ears. Like, a lot.

                Out of the bright, white light, stepped a figure. Normally angels appear as majestic beings, with flowing locks, and the bodies of athletes. This one looked like a dude named Steve.

                “Hey, I’m, uh, your guardian angel? Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, the name’s Steve. Nice to meetcha,” he said, extending his hand.

                Bewildered, I grabbed his hand, “I’m Dan, but, you—um, you would know that?”

                Steve the angel still had not let go of my hand and began dragging me around the mess of my living room. “Geez Dan, would it kill you to clean up a little? I know your life sucks, but this glass is dangerous!” He snapped the fingers of his free hand, and the shattered glass flew off the ground and back into the window panes. The cracks were still visible, and somehow the one on the TV had grown. He led me to an armchair, where he finally released my hand. He gestured for me to sit, and once I had, sat on the floor in front of me.

                “Uh,” I began.

                “Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Steve said consolingly, I think, but it sounded more condescending than anything else. “Things are kind of a mess right now, aren’t they? Sucks the big one. I been there. Think I was always a lowly guardian angel? Think I always went by Steve? No, at one time I had full, luscious hair, and went by the dignified name of Stefanos. I got to hang out with the archangels! But then, things kinda fell apart for me—wasn’t any of my fault, of course!” He reached up and put his hand on my knee, “You’re gonna get through this, Dave.”

                “My name’s Dan, and I—“

                “Right, right, Dan. You are going to be good, Dan, you got me by your side!” Steve the angel smiled beatifically, and then fell to his side. “Oh, who am I kidding? Look at me, Dave, look at me!” My corrections went unnoticed this time. “I’m a huge mess! I’ve lost my hair, I lost my girl! And now I’m stuck here, slummin’ it with you lot! I used to be somebody, Davey boy! I was there when the walls of Jericho fell; I stopped the destruction of Nineveh! But then, when I was supposed to go to some John guy with a prophecy, I went to the wrong guy. I really screwed the pooch there, Danny-san. Because I told the wrong John, the prophecy got all messed up. I mean, Wormwood? What is that even supposed to mean? That’s when things really started to go sour on me. The other angels started calling me Steve, and not inviting me out. Can you imagine being called Steve for two thousand years? It was pure he—well, not that, obviously.” Steve started gently crying into my carpet.

                “Yes, well, that is quite terrible. I’m sure you did nothing at all to earn that scorn, there were probably loads of people named ‘John’ back then.” I said, feeling oddly compelled to comfort the angel.

                The gentle sniffling stopped, and Steven raised his head, “You think?”

                “Uh, yeah, yeah I do. I mean, I would’ve assumed to take it Jesus’s friend John too, not some other one.”

                “Yeah, the one Jesus knew was the right one… I just couldn’t remember what he looked like. I was pretty high on life at the time. Oh, life is this special kinda drug thing that we angels have. Anyways, so I went and put up some posters, and gave the prophecy to the first John who came. How was I to know there was more than one?” Steve shook his head ruefully, “After that is when I got demoted to guardian angel. At first I was assigned some important people like Joan of Arc, Pope Benedict VI, among others, but after they all got murdered when I wasn’t paying attention, I got demoted again to looking after people who weren’t important. Like you, Danny!”

                I suddenly stood up: “I need tea.” I didn’t actually want tea, I hadn’t drunk tea by choice in years, but I walked into my kitchen and turn the kettle on. What had my life become? How had my life become so messed up that heaven’s least reliable angel had come to have a chat? The kettle begun whistling, so I splashed some water into a mug and added rum.

                “Listen, Steve,” I said as I walked back into the living room, “I think we should have a chat.” Steve had taken his shirt and shoes off, and was watching rugby with his feet on my coffee table. “I think it’s great that you came to see me and all, but I think I’ll handle this. Ya know, upon reflection, I was probably the cause of most of my problems.  Thanks for those stories; they really helped me clear some stuff up.”

                “What do you mean?” Steve asked.

                “Well, your stories. You told me them to show me that I had to take responsibility for my actions. How everything that’s going on in my life was because of something I have done, in a way.”

                Steve looked puzzled, “Not what I was going for, but you’re saying that I’ve helped? That I have fulfilled my duties as a guardian angel?”

                “I guess so?” I answered with a shrug.

                Steve stood and stretched, “Awesome, I’m gonna head out and catch the rest of this game someplace nicer.” With that, he disappeared in that blinding white light again, freshly shattering my windows. On the positive side, somehow the TV had fixed itself.

                In reflection, I don’t think Steve had taken the same lesson from his stories as I had. 

The greatest influence in my life

                Arguably the most important science fiction franchise in history turns 50 this year. Sorry Star Wars, but you wouldn’t exist if Star Trek hadn’t paved the way with its clearly superior writing and acting. Now, I’m a fan of many sci-fi franchises: Star Trek, Star Wars, Stargate, Battlestar Galactica, and those are just the ones with ‘star’ in the title. Yet, if I had to choose just one franchise to watch, read, and write about for the rest of my life, the choice would be startlingly easy: Star Trek. I learned so much from it, so many of my morals, my ideas about right and wrong, they come from Star Trek. My understandings of justice and acceptance, my ability to hold onto hope! My belief that things can get better, they all come from Star Trek.

                Star Trek debuted in the sixties. In a time of international tensions, and race riots, it portrayed a future where humanity was united. Where the country of your birth and the colour of your skin didn’t matter. At the height of the Cold War, it had a Russian officer working alongside American officers. At the height of the racial divide in the States, it had a black woman as an officer working alongside and in harmony with white people. For these reasons alone, it was ground breaking. Like all good science fiction, the stories the series told held up a mirror to society. Science fiction has the benefit of critiquing everything in a way that people don’t notice on the surface. Through episodes dealing with xenophobic aliens, it critiqued the Cold War. Through episodes dealing with alien races, it critiqued the racial divide in America.

                Star Trek portrayed a universe where people were always given a chance to prove themselves. A universe where people were judged only for their actions, not their appearance. It taught me that this is how people should act. I grew up watching a world where skin colour didn’t affect how you should look at people, and through that I became a person who doesn’t judge others by that. I’m sure my parents had a little to do with that, but this is about Star Trek, not them.

                Deep Space Nine taught me that the world isn’t in black and white. It taught me that morals weren’t black and white, and that if something was the right thing to do for one group of people it wasn’t necessarily the right thing for other groups. Through characters like Dr Bashir, who through no fault of his own was an illegal eugenic, I learned that I could accept myself for who I was. Through Kira I learned that being religious was okay, but that I shouldn’t blindly follow it if something felt wrong. Through Sisko I learned that leadership and respect is earned through actions, and not just because of status. It taught me that even good people will do bad things if they believe it’s the right thing to do. And in the end, it taught me that victories of any sort only come through sacrifice.

                The Old testament in the bible has some interesting thoughts on justice, including that the sins of the fathers can be passed on to future generations. Star Trek showed me that this was wrong. It allowed me to see that no one should be tied to the wrong doings of their families or of their people. The most obvious example that springs to mind is when Jadiza Dax was put on trial for the supposed actions of Curzon Dax. The accusers argued that because Jadiza was the new host of the Dax symbiont, she should be held accountable for the actions of Curzon. Odo once said that “The law? Commander, laws change, depending on who's making them - Cardassians one day, Federation the next. But justice is justice,” which took me a while to fully grasp. It’s something that I get now. Everywhere in the world, there are unjust laws: from the gun laws in the States, to some of the laws involving First Nations in Canada. Are the people affected by those laws receiving justice? No, they aren’t, and because of Star Trek, I learned to truly appreciate the fact that laws do not always equal justice.

                Star Trek was a world that I wanted to live in. A world where everyone was accepted, and for a time, I felt like I could live in that world. I truly embraced my inner trekkie. Then I moved and got teased and bullied for it, so I hid it. I still loved Star Trek, but it became something I enjoyed in secret. The irony is apparent to me now, but it was necessary at the time. I always found it so odd that Star Wars was something people could love openly, but Star Trek wasn’t. It was because Star Trek was always something that made you think, and thinking was something nerdy. Because Star Trek was smart, it wasn’t “cool”. The real world was so biased and base, that people weren’t even being accepted because they liked things that required thought. But Star Trek gave me hope that this would change, so I held onto that hope, and I continued to love Star Trek. The Vulcan philosophy of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations gave me the belief that anything is possible, because there is literally an infinite amount of choices that we can make. I watched all the series, I read the books, I played the games.

                Then I fell away from it for a bit. The real world got too dark and depressing, and I didn’t want things that made me think, so I fell into a world of bright colours and flashing lights to distract myself. The lessons I learned from Star Trek were still there, but I distanced myself from the franchise. I still watched the movies, but I didn’t read the books anymore. I quit watching the TV series. I was denying myself of something that was literally part of me. But outside of my parents, Star Trek was the biggest influence on my life. I grew up with it. I was molded by it. And yet I denied myself of it. I don’t know why, other than I thought people would judge me by it. But Star Trek taught me to be true to myself. To not hide who I am.

                And I’m a trekkie. Star Trek is possibly the most important science fiction franchise ever made. It has made real world changes: from technological advances, to how we view others. It has influenced the lives of countless people through its portrayal of humanity and a better world. Even Martin Luther King Jr believed that it was important. I will argue forever that is a better franchise than Star Wars in every aspect (except in money making), and we all know that Star Wars wouldn’t even exist if Star Trek hadn’t paved the way. For Star Trek’s 50^th birthday, they have added the their first canonically gay main character, who just happens to be a person of colour, and they’ve announced the return of Star Trek to television.

                I, for one, am excited, and will definitely be going to watch Star Trek Beyond next weekend; even if I have to drive to another city to see it (our theatre here is terrible). In case you didn’t pick it up, Deep Space Nine is my favourite series. Followed by the Original, then The Next Generation. Wrath of Khan is my favourite film, followed by First Contact, then The Undiscovered Country.

                Qapla’ and Live Long and Prosper.

                That’s right, I snuck some Klingon in. 

And then she slept

                My daughter was fourteen when she was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer. We didn’t know anything was wrong until she suddenly passed out at supper one night. They held her in the hospital for a few days and ran a battery of tests. When they released her, they told us they thought it could be cancer, but they needed to wait for the results to come in to be sure. Those days waiting felt like decades. We were all stuck in a weird state of limbo; never knowing if the news would be good or bad. Hoping for the best, fearing the worst.

                I remember the office perfectly. The doctor’s degrees were framed, but placed out of direct eyesight. The walls were painted a light green, probably to seem soothing. The chairs were comfortable, and upholstered in red. On his desk sat a vase of flowers (from his girlfriend, he told us), pictures of pets, a framed photo of a beautiful woman, and an autographed picture of Deforest Kelly (the reason he became a doctor, because, dammit, he’s not an engineer!).

                The doctor himself had a kind face and was wearing a brightly coloured tie. His voice was strong when he spoke. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good,” he paused here and glanced at his notes. I think he just did this to give us a moment to prepare. “The tests came back positive for cancer. I had them run the tests again, just to be safe. Unfortunately, the results did not change. The results indicate that you have stage four ovarian cancer. The prognosis is not good, but there are a few things that we can try.” As he was speaking, my daughter reached over and grasped my hand. “I’m going to leave you alone for a few minutes to process, then when I come back, we can go over treatment options.”

                He gave us a small smile as he left the room. My daughter was still holding on to my hand, and her thumb was idly tracing up and down my own.

                She smiled at me when I looked at her, “It’s gonna be okay Mama. He said there are options. And if they don’t work, then I get to go home a little early.”

                I didn’t know how to respond, so I said some mindless words of comfort. I’m pretty sure it was more for my benefit than hers.

                After the doctor went over the various procedures and options, we went home. I was in a daze, just trying to process the abundance of thoughts running through my head.

                “Hey mom,” she said the next day while we were sitting on the couch, “I guess this means I won’t have to worry about having kids. That’s a load off.” I think she was trying to make a joke, but it just brought me to tears.

                It took months to go through all the different options available. Each one came back with the same results: the cancer was not slowing.

                I had to sit, helplessly, and watch my daughter, my only child, the only family I had left, waste away. As the months went on, she just got smaller and smaller. The multitude of treatments began to wear on her and her voice became weak. Still, every day, she would smile, hold my hand, and tell me that things would be okay.

                I wanted to believe her right up until the end.

                Six months after her diagnosis, I was sitting beside her hospital bed, as various machines did all they could to keep her stable. The doctor had told me this could be her last night.

                I raged, and cursed, and I swore. I screamed at God.  I screamed at all the deities I knew, and some that I didn’t. I prayed. I cried. And finally I went to her.

                She opened her eyes when I laid my hand on hers. “Hey mama,” she said. Her voice was so weak, but she smiled when she saw me. “Guess I’m goin’ home soon, eh? That’s okay. I’m ready. I’ll get to see Daddy again. I’m gonna miss you though, mama. But I’ll keep my eye on you, okay? I’ll still be with you.” She held my hand and tried to squeeze it. Tears were flowing freely for both of us. “I love you mama. I need you to be strong for me, okay?”

                I opened my mouth to reply, but I couldn’t speak. I took a breath, and tried again: “I’ll try. I promise. I love you so much.”

                She smiled softly, “Thanks mama.” Then she closed her eyes and slept.

                She passed a couple hours later in her sleep.

                I wasn’t really a religious person, but my daughter had believed and went to a local church. I asked her pastor to do the funeral, and he agreed. He also offered to give me grief counselling.

                “She was so young. And she got taken from me. I’ve lost everyone in my life, Pastor. My parents passed when I was twenty, and her father was killed when she was seven. And now she’s gone too! Why? Why would your god do this to me? How is this part of his will?” I raged one session.

                “I would not say that her death was part of His will, nor would I say that He did this to you. I know many who would take solace in believing that, but it’s not something that I personally believe in, nor do I think it will do you any good. Instead I will simply say this: the loss of your daughter is a great tragedy. It was not the act of some vengeful God, or part of some great cosmic plan. It just happened, and it’s horrible, but it is no one’s fault. Especially not yours.”

               

Maybe one day I can believe that. 

Reflections at the end: a poem

What will I be at the end of the day?

Will I be strong?

Will I be confident?

Will I be the hero?

                or

      more likely

Will I be weak?

Will I be afraid?

Will I be the villain?

At the end of the day

Will I be able to look in the mirror?

Will what I see frighten me?

                            disgust me?

                            surprise me?

At the end of the day,

When the masks come off

                    costumes come off

What will be left but a reflection?

You

                “There’s a lot of bad in the world, isn’t there, papa?” She asks, staring into your eyes with sadness someone her age should not know.

                “There is, honey. But you know what? There’s a whole lot of good too,” you say, looking down at those brown eyes. You remember the first time you saw those eyes, when she was just born and she saw the world for the first time. You remember the first time you saw those eyes cry, and you remember how you told yourself you would do everything to make things better. You smile at her, hoping that your half answer has satisfied her.

                It didn’t: “But everything looks so bad. All we see on tv is more and more bad. How can there be good too?” She has her eyebrows crinkled together as her mind works. A warm breeze rustles her hair, and you watch the strands dance before answering.

                “Well,” your mind races now, “there are good people out there. People trying to make positive changes in the world. People who help everybody. Plus, the Hawks are looking pretty good this year, that’s always a good thing for me!”

                She chews on the end of her hair, absently, as she thinks about your words. “Are you one of those people, papa?”

                Her question startles you. You’ve always thought yourself a good person, but are you? You remember the casual racism of your youth, and the not so casual racism of the not-so distant past. You remember all the times that you lied to and cheated others. You remember the oft-considered affairs, and that they didn’t happen only because you got cold feet. You remember leaving your friends behind. Your family that was torn apart because of your choices. Worst of all, you remember every fight with your wife. Sure, you always tip, and you sometimes hold the door open for people. And yet the question lingers, Are you a good person? You open your mouth to answer, planning on giving some mindless little lie, but the look on her face forces you to reconsider. “No, honey, I’m not.”

                The hair falls out of her mouth as she looks at you in surprise, “What do you mean, papa?”

                You take a breath. “I don’t help people. You’re the only person that I help out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t protest things; I don’t go out of my way to give a helping hand. I don’t even tell the people at work to not say racist things. I just let it all happen, and tell myself that it doesn’t matter because I’m not doing it. But I am. I’m letting it happen, and sometimes I even join in.”

                She reaches forward and puts her hand on top of yours. The warmth from her hand resonates through you, and begins to calm your heart that you never noticed was racing. “You’re good to me, papa. That’s all I see.”

                You smile at her, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. “I love you, honey. I’m going to be the person you see.”
                As her arms wrap around your neck in a hug, you promise to yourself that you’re going to be better.     

                For her.

                

The Land of the Free

                Once upon a time there was land whose people thought they were free and just. Every day, they would march and shout about how wonderful life was in their great land. To them, they were the pinnacle that the rest of the world was trying to reach! To the rest of the world however, they were simply a lesson in how not to be.

                Every day news stories came out of this land of people being murdered simply because of who they were born as. Every day new accounts came forth about discrimination and hardships. Every day more and more people became scared to leave their homes. And every day the people of this land went out and shouted to the skies about how great, just, and free they all were.

                Every time an unarmed person was killed, the voices would cry: “If only they had been armed!”

                Every time an armed person was killed, the voices would cry: “If only they had not been armed!”

                They would cry these out, yet never could they see the irony of their words.

                “We are the land of freedom!” They would say to any who would listen, all the while ignoring those who could not leave their homes out of fear.

                “We are the land of opportunity!” They would shout, all the while ignoring those who could not get work because of who they were.

                “Everyone is equal here!” They would boast, all the while the system systematically oppressed those different from them.

                Whenever the world would say, “We think you have a problem with weapons,” they would assure the world that was not the case!—as they stood on the bodies that died that day.

                Whenever the world would say, “You’re not as free as you think you are,” they would scoff and laugh!—as the oppressed grew more and destitute behind them.

                “What a great land we are,” they would think as they invaded other lands for their own gain.

                “Surely the whole world loves us and looks up to us!” They would think as the rest of the world pulled away in fear.

                The whole world would watch in sick fascination whenever this land would choose its leader. Always hoping the next one would somehow fix the problems, yet always knowing that the problems would never disappear.

                It was truly confusing to the world how a land so filled with hate and mistrust could boast about freedom and equality. Where had the people of this land ever actually seen freedom and equality? Or had those concepts become so warped and diseased that the people living there actually thought themselves free? Could they be that deluded? In a land where the protectors killed innocents in front of children, in a land where the protectors killed children, how could they call themselves free and equal? In a land where those of different colour were treated as second class, in a land where who others loved determined their value, how could they call themselves free and equal?

                Every day news of new tragedies would come out of this land, and every morning the people would come out and boast about how wonderful everything was.

                And the world watched as this land burned down around the people. 

Ten points to whoever can guess what country this is about! It's gonna be suuuuuuuper hard. 

For Anton and Philando, and the 559 others.

                Dear friends, I know that I have been putting a renewed focus on storytelling and fiction to get my points across lately. I’ve enjoyed the experience, and I will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Today, however, I am sad. Today I am not going to tell a fiction to make you think, I am simply going to tell the truth, and how it makes me feel.

                In the past two days, two black men were killed by police in the states in front of witnesses. The attacks were recorded by the witnesses, and were sent to various news agencies, and uploaded. One was even livestreamed to Facebook. The men’s names are: Anton Sterling, married with a son, and Philando Castile, who was shot while in his car with his girlfriend and daughter. No matter where you stand in this, you must admit that the officer who fired shots into a car with a young child was in the wrong. I’m not going to post links to the videos as they are extremely graphic, but if you feel like you can handle it, I do recommend watching them so you can actually see what happened.

                Anton Sterling was shot point blank in the head while being restrained on the ground. The officer who fired said Anton was reaching for a weapon. It should be noted that both of Anton’s arms , were being restrained, one even by the officer who fired. Earlier in the night, police had been called to investigate an apparent altercation between Anton and an unknown party. The officers, in the video, tackled Anton into the hood of a car, before forcing him onto the ground. One officer knelt on Anton’s back, pinning one arm, while the other knelt on Anton’s other arm. Seconds later the officer on Anton’s arm fired his gun several times, killing Anton.

                The next day, officers pulled over Philando Castile for a broken taillight; also in the car were his girlfriend and his young daughter in the backseat. Philando, cooperating fully, informed the officer that he had a license to carry, and that he would only take out his ID as the officer had requested. The officer fired several rounds into Philando as he reached for his ID. Again, the officer fired into a confined space that contained a woman and a young girl with no regard for their safety. The girlfriend began to livestream the events immediately after the shots had been fired. In the stream you can see the officer still pointing his gun at the now severely wounded Philando, who is drenched in blood and having difficulty breathing. The girlfriend calmly explains the situation as the officer swore outside the car. More police arrived at the scene and made the girlfriend get out of the car. They tossed the phone, still streaming, away from her, and you can hear them put handcuffs on her. During this, she is constantly asking about her daughter. The stream ended with the girlfriend crying and her daughter repeating: “I’m right here.” Philando later died from the gun shots in hospital.

                He was shot and killed in front of his girlfriend and young daughter because of a broken taillight. Because of the actions of this officer, this young girl not only has to grow up without a father, she had to watch her father die.

                Watching the video involving Anton made me sick, watching the video about Philando broke my heart, and knowing that their children will now have to grow up without fathers made me angry. You can argue all you want to try and justify the officer’s actions; I will not care for what you say. Their actions were caught on tape. You can see what happened clearly. These officers murdered two black men. The officers, in both cases, fired at point blank range. It is evident in Anton’s case that the officer executed the man, and it is evident in Philando’s case that the officer had no regard for black life when he fired into a car that contained a young black child.

                The American police system is broken. It has been broken for years, but with the advent of smartphones and livestreaming, the brokenness has become so much more apparent. The police are no longer able to sweep these things under the rug—but they still try! Just look at all of the officers who have killed unarmed black people, and have had nothing happen to them. Most of them are still cops. In some cases, even white civilians have been let off the hook after murdering a black person.

                I don’t understand how people can see all this and not think white privilege is real. I don’t understand how people can see all this and think that Black Lives Matter is a waste of time. I don’t understand how people can see all this and think that racism is dead. In 2016, police in the States have killed 561 people, the majority of which have been people of colour. In 2015, the total was 1146, of which over 72% were black people. And let’s not forget that in 2014, an officer shot and killed a 12 year old boy for having a toy gun, a mere two seconds after arriving at a park.

                I made myself watch the videos because Anton and Philando deserve to be remembered. I watched the videos so I could see what actually happened. There is so much hate in the world right now. Everyday there is more and more, and every day it gets harder for people to stay positive. Every day it gets harder to believe in a better tomorrow, and every day the hope for that seems more like a foolish dream.

                Over the past few days, I have had friends attacked and receive death threats because of their race or religion. This hate has always existed, all the way from the beginning of recorded history has the human race hated each other, but lately it just seems so much worse.

                I want to believe in humanity. I want to believe in the goodness of man. I want to. But some days I can’t. 

We heal by love: A poem

                A man was killed last night by those sworn to protect, yet we argue and bicker over the details of a past we know nothing about.

                People argue against hate while hating those who hate others, can’t the hypocrisy be seen?

                We stand up for a better tomorrow, while casting shade on those who disagree.

                We cry at the unjust killing of another, while calling for the death of those responsible.

                Violence begetting violence.

                All the world knows.

                Shouldn’t we be better than our primal natures?

                Or is that all we have left?

                Are we more than what we were?

                Or are we just what we were?

                A man was killed and we blame the person who pulled the trigger—

                Not the system that allows this

                Not the company that makes the gun

                We blame the person.  

                We get mad and we scream and shout.

                We cry for justice

                                                But do we want justice or just revenge?

                So easily confused.

                So easily differentiated.

                People always screaming for justice, while their hearts silently beg for vengeance.

                “Vengeance is mine,” sayeth the Lord.

                “I am the Lord,” sayeth man.

                Who are we to judge and execute

                Who are we when we put ourselves on a higher pedestal?

                We judge ourselves better than those who judge themselves better than those

                Where’s the line?

                Where’s the difference?

                How can we change the world when we cannot change ourselves?

                We want to survive so we stay the course.

                Goin ‘gainst the current is how we drown

                So the current takes us where it wants,

                Washing up on foreign shores,

                We do what we know.

                We do what we need to survive.

                Some of us have guilt so black we take every stand

                Just to wash away some of it

                Just to sleep at night.

                Some of us need to be seen, so we take every stand

                Just so people know us

                Just so we can feel good.

                Some of us have been hurt so bad, we lash out at every stand

                Just to feel something

                Just so other people know how much we hurt.

                Some of us just hate everyone who isn’t us

                So we think they’re lesser

                So we hurt them.

                Some of us are just good, so we take every stand

                So we can help

                So we can make a difference.

                We need to heal each other.

                We need to help each other.

                We heal by educating

                We heal by giving back

                We heal by love. 

A three to eight step program!

                The problem with writing something new every day is that some days there is nothing new to write. The days where one gets buried under the monotony of daily existence and creativity seems to be somewhat stifled, and one can just not write or create! Unstifling the stifled is often the first thing that comes to mind, but how does one unstifle exactly?

                I’m glad you asked! I’m here today to tell you the three steps to becoming unstifled!

                What is this? Who are you?

                You seem confused, and a trifle overstifled! My quick and easy five step program can help with that!

                You literally just said it was a three step program. I can still see where you typed it!

                Now, now young lady, don’t get all in a bother!

                I’m not—doesn’t matter. Who are you?

                Well young master, let’s just say that I can fix your problems. I can make it so your creativity never gets stifled again. Would you like that?

                I guess so? I would get to be creative all the time. I could really focus on my art. Ok. What’s the five step program?

                Six step.

                It say’s five step like seven or eight lines ago!

                Now it’s an eight step program. Keep it up, lass.

                Okay, sorry. What are the eight steps?

                Step one: Acceptance

                Wait—acceptance? Isn’t that a little clichéd?

                Acceptance is always the first step.

                Okay, okay. What’s step two?

                Now’s when it gets tricky, fraulein. Step two: cry about it until an imaginary voice comes and talks to you.

                Kay. One: ouch. Two: you’re typing, I can’t hear you.

                Everything is a matter of perspective, no?

                …You may have a point.

                Damn straight I do, Milly. Step three: drop the sarcasm and the bitterness, and look for the problem.

                That one’s actually helpful.

                Step four: ignore the problem and find its roots.

                That one doesn’t make sense. Isn’t the problem already the root?

                Dandelions are a problem, the roots are the cause.

                That’s deep. Okay, I can try that. Thanks for the help.

                Where are you going?

                I got my answers, I’m leaving.

                Eight step program remember?

                You originally said it was only a three step program.

                I changed my mind. Well, our mind technically. I am just a spectre of your own creation after all! Now. Step five: Don’t pull the roots out, dig them out.

                Wait, I got this one. You dig them out so you don’t miss anything right?

                I’d smile in answer, but you’re not really describing anything, so yeah. That’s right. Step six: pile the roots in a nice pilelike shape.

                Um…

                Step seven: burn the roots so they can never come back.

                I don’t think this—

                Step eight: scoop up the ashes with your new 2 Horse Power Gladiator Shovel! Yours for only seventeen payments of $32.68!

                I’m done.

                But wait! Order now, and get it for only nine payments! 

The secrets we keep

                Secrets are a universal constant that bind humanity together. Everyone has secrets, and many of the feelings associated with secrets are a shared experience. We all know how it feels to keep a secret from others, for others, and even from ourselves.

                I have a secret. I have many secrets if I’m honest with myself, which I rarely am (who wants to be that depressed?). I have things that I keep so buried within my subconscious that I don’t even know if they’re real or not anymore. That’s the problem with secrets. If they stay hidden for too long they become myths.

                I have a variety of those kinds of secrets. From the mundane: friends confessing crushes and being sworn into secrecy; to the major: standing over the collapsed form, fearing for my own existence, and being told that what I saw wasn’t real. Over a lifetime, one collects many secrets. Now, here at my end, I will share some of those secrets that have kept me awake at night.

                I was twelve, she was fourteen, and I was madly in love. I confessed this to my closest friend, who, upon hearing this, confessed his own unending love for the same girl. For the sake of our friendship, we both agreed to never tell a soul.

                He broke that pact a week later, but then she moved and he was heartbroken, while I had already moved onto my next love.

                I was fifteen, he was sixteen. To be a complete cliché, he was also the captain of the football team. He was my first kiss, among other things (some secrets I keep still), and after our short but passionate fling, he swore me into secrecy so his girlfriend and the team wouldn’t find out.

                He’s married now. It was a beautiful wedding. He and his husband are very happy together.

                I was eighteen and just entering college, she was thirty-six and married. I worked at a restaurant she and her husband frequented. On weekends, when he was away, we would meet. This wasn’t at all what you are thinking. There was nothing sexual. We would just go on hikes, and play sports. We would go and have fun together, something her and her husband no longer did. She didn’t want anyone to know because of what the rumours could become.

                She and her husband divorced some years later. She is much happier now.

                I was nineteen; he was twenty-seven and a literature professor. There were nights where we would meet, having told everyone that we were going to the library, and then we would fuck. There was no romance, no emotion for me. It was just sex. At the end it was almost mechanical to me, but not to him. I swore him into secrecy so no one would think I was doing this for marks.

                I still got Christmas cards from him, until the year he passed. I think he had fallen in love with me.

                I was twenty-two and just about to graduate. I had a rival student who was up against me for title of valedictorian. Through a series of lies and other falsehoods, I was able to convince the Dean that this other student had been cheating on exams. They were expelled, and I was named valedictorian.

                Out of all my sins, this is the thing I regret the most. In my heart I knew they would get expelled, yet I did it anyways. They worked menial jobs until the day they took their own life.

                I was twenty-five, just starting to get a name in the firm I was working for. I got my name through sleeping with the more senior members, and betraying the more junior ones. A colleague of mine once came to me and confessed that he had fixed several of the accounts to cover up a mistake he had made. I assured him that I would take care of it. He was fired the next day. Through sex and blackmailing, I made it up the ladder fairly quickly.

                I don’t necessarily regret this. If I had lived differently, I would not have been able to do all that I have done. I do regret getting some of those people fired.

                I was thirty-eight, he was thirty-two, and the dead girl on the floor was twenty-one. This is when my secrets get darker. We had engaged in a polyamorous relations. We were happy. And then the girl started to have track marks on the inside of her elbows. She always claimed they were bug bites, but her eyes and hair told us the truth of the matter. One night she overdosed. She was no one, not really. Just some struggling actress who had fallen for the dignified and upper class gay couple who had frequented her shows. She had no family, no friends outside of us. So we covered it up. We burned her body and buried her ashes in a park she liked. We had everything to lose. If anyone had found out, our reputations would’ve been ruined. The stress of the lie was too much for us, and we broke up soon after.

                I am ashamed of the person I was. Of the person I am. This girl deserved better than that. And yet we tossed her away to protect our own dignity.

                I was forty-five, a founding member of a new and prestigious firm. We had been out drinking, celebrating the landing of an important and wealthy client. The girl was drunk, I don’t even know her age, but she was maybe twenty-two. I knew our new client, a forty year old woman, liked girls her age, so I sent the client over. They left together. The client kept this girl, basically in a cage, for three years. I never knew for certain this was true, but in my heart I knew it was. Eventually the client was arrested for something else, and I was questioned about the remains that had been found in the backyard. I denied any knowledge.

                As of now, you’re thinking that I am the direct cause for two girls death, and you are not wrong. This knowledge kept me awake at night and led me to the bottles I now love so much.

                I was fifty. There was some grey in my hair, and I believed that it lent me a certain air of dignity. I was an alcoholic, a functional one, but an alcoholic nonetheless. In a drunken state while walking home, I saw a man dragging a woman behind him. He was swearing and swinging at her with his free hand, and I could see blood on her face. I roared. All the guilt I had flooded me and turned into rage. I rushed the man, and in his confusion I was able to solid contact with his jaw. His grip slipped, and I yelled at the woman to leave. I beat the man with my bare hands. I remember his nose breaking under my fist. I remember feeling jaw bend and then break as I rain down blows. And lastly, I remember smashing his head into the concrete; again and again. I stood, drenched in this man’s blood, and bellowed into the night sky.

                I never told anyone this. I am oddly proud of my actions, yet I know how some would react to this story. I know I would be labelled murderer.

                I was fifty-three. I had taken to wandering the streets late at night. In my head I was protecting helpless people. In reality I was trying to atone for my guilt. I was in a stable relationship with your father. My firm was one of the top in the country. Yet, every night I would wander the streets, hoping for the chance to play a hero. Hoping for the chance to save a life. Hoping to take one. I did this for five years. And in those five years I took seven lives. There was no pattern, nothing to make police suspect a serial killer, and even if they had, I would have never been a suspect.

                I thought I was a hero. I thought I had been saving people’s lives by taking other ones. I was no hero. Look what it’s gotten me: nothing.

                I am seventy-three. I am alying here, at the end of my story, and I am telling you my secrets. Not for you to keep, I would never ask that. But for you to tell. Tell your father what I could not. Tell the world the truth about me.

                My secrets have worn me down. My secrets have destroyed my life. It may not seem that way, it may look as though my life was good. And while living, it was. But now? Now I am flooded with regrets. Secrets always seem like a good idea at the time, but secrets are the worst thing we can do to ourselves. If I could have another go, I would do things differently. If I—ah, hell. This is easy to say here and now that things would be different. The truth though? I’d probably do the damn thing over again, make the same mistakes and keep the same secrets. People always do the easy thing.

                Tell your father that I—.